


Icarus

by Vince_ible



Series: Idols and Demiurges [2]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Uprising
Genre: Alan goes to the Grid, Angst galore, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vince_ible/pseuds/Vince_ible
Summary: (1990)The day of his demotion, Alan Bradley receives a page from a friend.(Prequel to Ichor)
Series: Idols and Demiurges [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025269
Comments: 43
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading, watch this clip from the Flynn Lives ARG. It sets the mood nicely.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_nBWKSnGck

_"Alan. I'm glad you came."_

Alan Bradley stared at the words on the screen.

In hindsight, he should've known that Flynn had a secret lab in the arcade. Where else? The man had practically _lived_ in that damn arcade. He'd worked there, played there, ate there, hell, even _slept_ there. Sometimes he would disappear for days at a time, and when Alan asked where he was, his only explanation was, "The arcade". It was the first place the police had searched.

But who would've guessed that out of the dozens of well-worn consoles, one would be housing a hidden workspace.

Once more, Alan reviewed the transcript on the old, black touch-screen. It read less like commands and more like a conversation. His first action had been to enter the command, _"$whoami"_.

 _"Flynn,"_ answered the computer.

That first part was fine. It confirmed what he'd already suspected—that Flynn was the active user for this system. But underneath that line was something else.

 _"And who are you?"_ prompted the computer.

Computers were _not_ supposed to do that.

Alan didn't puzzle over it too much. At least, not at first. This was Flynn's personal computer, and he wouldn't be surprised if the man had made all sorts of modifications. He'd always been a mischievous character, fond of fun little jokes, pranks embedded in his programming, and so-called "Easter Eggs".

Though the computer seemed to run on its own, separate network, Alan had recognized much of its base from Encom. The monitor even had an Encom logo blinking in its bottom right corner. Perhaps Flynn had used the Encom intranet as a template, a foundation for a much broader system.

On an impulse, he'd typed his Encom user-name into the input field, _"Alan1."_

Then came that final phrase, _"Alan. I'm glad you came."_

A chill ran down his spine, and Alan was struck with the sudden sensation of being _watched_. He'd looked around for cameras, but saw only the laser— _Lora's_ laser. It was a genuine _SHV-20905_ , looking like it'd been ripped straight from the labs in Encom's underbelly. Its lens stared at him like a cyclopean eye. The whole place was a graveyard of Encom property. There was the laser, Dillinger's old desktop, and the massive, rumbling servers, all coated in dust.

Within seconds, more words appeared on the screen.

_"I need your help, man."_

"Jesus, Flynn," Alan whispered.

Though he refused to speak too openly to the media, Alan had his own theories about Flynn's disappearance, most of them involving kidnapping and extortion. Flynn would never leave his family. Not willingly, anyway. The man was too dedicated to Encom, both the people who ran it and the discoveries it promised. He was an icon. He'd blazed through the company's ranks and set the world afire. The public clung to his theories like their own new age gospel. Unfortunately, those theories often caught the attention of unsavoury individuals as well.

Flynn had flown too close to the sun, and paid the price.

Alan had tried to keep that flame alive, at least until Flynn or Sam could take up the torch. He'd organized searches and scoured the city. When Encom pulled the plug and the police closed their investigation, he'd continued the search through unofficial channels. He'd preserved servers, fought for Flynn's ideas, and pressured the board with every chance he got.

Until today.

Officially, Alan Bradley had stepped down as CEO. The reality was much closer to a hostile takeover. He'd been unceremoniously demoted and replaced by Hardington, of all people. Alan wasn't too bitter about it. At least he could make a difference in his new department, instead of trying to appease packs of executives and shareholders at every turn.

But Roy... Poor Roy...

That evening, he'd walked out of his office absolutely defeated, until a page brought him back to the arcade, where it all began.

And now here he was, in a dingy basement, communing with ghosts.

Feeling rather foolish, Alan typed, _"Flynn? Is that you?"_

The reply was instantaneous. _"I've been trapped bud."_

A thought wormed its way into Alan's head. Somehow, Flynn had found a way to contact him. The text _felt_ like Flynn. He must've found a way to connect to this computer and to Alan's pager in spite of his captors.

 _"Where are you communicating from?"_ Alan asked.

_"It's beautiful man. Let me show you."_

Alan blinked at that.

_"What?"_

_"Just make yourself comfortable."_

Once more, the reply was immediate. Inhumanly so. Alan began to feel doubts. He rose from the desk, only to be struck from behind.

Then, everything disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Hey this drabble and a half I just wrote is kinda fun. Maybe I'll post it.  
> Me 1 month later: OK we are now 10 chapters deep and writing a smol prequel. OK. This is fine.
> 
> I tried to make a few parallels to the dialogue from the original digitizing scene in 1982, I guess?
> 
> Not sure how motivated I'll be to finish this but it'll definitely be... shorter, than Ichor. Also, you don't need to read Ichor to read this. This is just a fun lil' side project.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Alan felt was pain.

It was a strange pain, like something that _should've_ been unbearable, but wasn't, like being on novocaine while the dentist drills away. The pressure was there, along with the phantom pangs, but the actual pain itself was muted. Numbed. On the outside, Alan was frozen in place, forever trapped in a moment. On the inside, he was convulsing, ripped apart and reassembled into a body that was not quite his own.

When it was over, Alan was left with nothing but an overwhelming dizziness. He wobbled away from the desk and nearly collapsed. The world was spinning in irregular ellipticals. He felt like vomiting, but there was no food in his stomach.

The second thing Alan noticed was the cold.

It was subtle at first, like a gentle breeze on an autumn evening. Gradually, that breeze became a frigid blast that chilled him down to the bone. Shivering, Alan squinted at the room around him, and found that it was not the one he'd left.

Gone was the dust and the clutter. All of Flynn's knickknacks were replaced by clear surfaces, sharp edges, and perfect angles. Alan gazed at the desktop and saw a flawless reflection gazing back. The servers were silent, more decorative than anything. Another shiver travelled down his body.

This was wrong. The world was _wrong_. It was too cold, too clean, and too sterile. He felt like he was in a hospital, or a _morgue_ , and like most visits to the hospital, he wanted nothing more than to go home.

Teeth chattering, Alan called out, "H-hello?"

The word echoed hollowly as he waited.

No reply. But then, what else had he expected?

He took a step and spied his glasses on the floor, seemingly unscathed. They must've fallen from his face whilst he'd been stumbling about. A perplexed crease appeared between his brows.

Odd. He hadn't noticed their absence, and his eyesight seemed just fine.

After some hesitation, he retrieved them and examined the lenses meticulously for any scratches. Once satisfied, he put them on, and was immediately baffled. He took the glasses off, waved his hand in front of his face, put them on again, and repeated.

There was no change. On or off, the glasses did nothing.

Unable to process this impossibility, Alan left the glasses on. _Glasses are expensive, after all_ , he thought half-hysterically. Plus he was particularly fond of this pair. It wasn't easy finding frames that fit just right.

He began to ascend the stairs out of the office. The weight on his nose was a comfort, a normalcy in the midst of so much uncertainty. Aside from the cold, everything was lighter and buzzed with an underlying energy. This included Alan. His feet were feather-like, and there was a spring in his step that he hadn't felt since he was a much younger man.

Something had happened. He didn't know what, but he was going to find out.

 _God,_ he was cold... so cold that he might never be warm again.

He paused at the top of the stairway. In terms of layout, the arcade was exactly the same. Except there were no machines, no tarps, and no dust. Just black walls with the occasional glowing line. The lines were unlike anything Alan had ever seen—like living LEDs, or bioluminescent glowsticks. Alan walked through the empty lobby like a wary animal, flinching whenever the lines flickered.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong_ , his brain warned, over and over again. _Wrong, wrong, **wrong.**_

The doors and the windows were in the right places, at least, and after what felt like an eternity, he reached the entrance of the arcade—if it could even be called that. No sooner had he touched the doors than something rattled the room. Alan jumped away from the door and darted to the nearest window. His eyes bulged from their sockets.

Three, genuine, _real_ recognizers flew in V formation around the arcade. He'd seen enough of them from marketing _Space Paranoids_ to know what they were. Their irregular shapes and red lines were unmistakable. One by one, they landed, and a rumble ran through Alan's feet.

"This isn't happening," Alan said. Maybe if he kept lying to himself it would start to feel less real.

Even worse, the world _behind_ the recognizers was utterly alien. Everything was defined by desaturated grays, blacks, and whites, as if all the colour had bled from the universe. The only exception to this rule was the red on the recognizers, and the red on the-

Wait, were those _people?_

The middle pieces descended, and a column of helmeted people poured out of the cockpits. They were dressed in all-black, save for the crimson that ran over their bodies like circuitry. Two of them marched to the doors, and although Alan backed up, he couldn't help but stare. It was the strangest thing he'd seen yet. Even so, the designs were... _familiar_ , somehow. He'd definitely seen this before, in miniature, maybe, but all the same...

Something occurred to Alan, and the pieces came together all at once.

_The laser._

_"A Digital Frontier."_

_Sam's action figures, the "programs"._

"Flynn, what have you done," Alan breathed, just before he ran.

The doors slammed open behind him. The two strangers—the two _programs_ _—_ were on him in an instant. They plowed into him like a freight train and all three of them tumbled into a heap. Without knowing why, Alan rolled and kicked wherever he could. Although he couldn't see the faces of his attackers, Alan could tell from the soft grunts that at least some of his kicks had met their marks. Whoever these people were, they'd attacked first, and he didn't take kindly to being jumped.

Despite his best efforts, Alan was overpowered within seconds. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the doors by his arms. Their steps were measured, machine-like, and military. Neither one looked him in the eye. For his part, Alan continued to fight. He dug his heels into the ground and bucked like a mule—to no avail.

It was time for another approach.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Alan gasped.

Perhaps he could reason with them. Then again, if they were really computer programs, like he suspected... then there might be no point.

The one of his left spoke with a deep, distorted voice. " _Quiet._ "

OK. So they could talk at least.

"Listen, I don't know how I got here, or what the hell's happening, but-"

Alan fell silent as they exited the arcade. His racing thoughts ground to a stop.

Across the boulevard, in front of the centre recognizer, was _Flynn._ He wore a black bodysuit, broken by strokes of glowing gold, but it was undeniably _Flynn,_ looking exactly like the day he'd disappeared. At seeing Alan, a broad smile began to grow on his face.

"Hello Alan," he said.

Flynn's figure blurred and Alan wondered, somewhat irrationally, if his glasses had stopped working. He wiped at a nonexistent fog on one of the lenses.

"Flynn?" Alan's throat tightened around the name. " _Flynn?_ "

Flynn's grin grew larger still until it was almost Cheshire-like. "It's good to see you, pal," he said, before something stern edged his voice. "Release him."

The restraining hands dropped from Alan's arms, and in that same instant, Alan lunged for his friend. Driven by disbelief and desperation, he collided into him and just about bowled him over. Flynn lost his footing and they knelt in each other's arms. Alan must've adjusted to the cold, because now, all he felt was warmth.

This had to be a dream. Even with Flynn here—solid, present, and _alive_ —he could hardly believe it. After one whole year, he'd found him. The frames of Alan's glasses dug into his skin as he clutched Flynn closer, burying his nose in his hair. It was neater than he remembered, but unmistakably Flynn's. Flynn patted his back awkwardly and a chuckle wisped past his ear.

"Long time no see, huh?"

Lord if THAT wasn't an understatement...

"Jesus- _shit_ , Flynn, where were you? No, wait, _how_ \- Wh- What happened?"

Flynn gave him one final pat before pulling away, smiling all the while.

"It's OK. I'm here now..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😈
> 
> (I exchange comments for cookies 🍪)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical undressing? Think the armory scene from Legacy.

Riding in a recognizer was not how Alan had expected to spend his evening. As far as fever-dreams-made-reality went, though, he couldn't complain.

The view was certainly worth it.

Flynn had always described his _"Digital Frontier"_ in metropolitan terms and metaphors. He'd write about hypothetical freeways, vehicles made of data, junctions that worked like circuit boards, and toll bridges that were accessed with permissions instead of fares. Now Alan could see why.

The world outside the recognizer was reminiscent of a cityscape. It was both familiar and foreign, and Alan could identify Flynn's and Jordan's influence in the architecture. The skyscrapers were smooth, sweeping, and impossibly tall. There were even points that made the L.A. horizon look like a collection of toy models. Light laced through the city like ribbons, dividing streets and delineating buildings. The most common colour was white, but there was also blue, turquoise, and teal. Never before had Alan seen so much neon at once.

 _If only Lora could've seen this..._ Especially since it was _her laser_ that had made it all possible.

Overwhelmed, Alan looked away from the window. "All this time, I thought you'd been kidnapped, when really..." He shook his head at the deck. "So, the stories you told Sam, the jokes about programs, the video game marketing, _all_ of it..."

"I'm so sorry that this wasn't shared with you sooner," said Flynn, sounding more mad at himself than anything. "It was... _selfish_ , of me, to keep this to myself."

A tiny frown inched across Alan's face. The more time he spent with Flynn, the more it became clear that he was a different man. His speech and mannerisms were a little too formal in a way that was distinctly _un_ -Flynn. _Living in a computer for one year probably changes a person_ , Alan concluded, which brought up another thought...

"We're really inside a computer," he said.

Saying it aloud made it all the more absurd. Sure, he'd seen Lora digitize plenty of objects, but this...

"Not just any computer. As far as I can tell, this is the most complex, most efficient system yet—capable of housing countless programs and running untold numbers of simulations," Flynn said with no shortage of pride. "This is where I piloted a lot of Encom's experiments, or tested out video games. But more importantly, I wanted to share this system with the Other World, one day." He sighed. "If only things hadn't gone so horribly wrong..."

"What happened?" Alan asked. A part of him was dreading the answer, but he _needed_ to know. Flynn owed him that much.

Waving a dismissive hand, Flynn said, "Oh, y'know, betrayal, tragedy, the usual hang-ups... We can get deep into the details later."

Alan opened his mouth to say more, but his voice died in his throat. They'd come to a high-rise composed almost entirely out of glass and light. It was shorter than many of the other structures Alan had seen, but more spread out, sprawling, and stately. Its lines were mostly red with gold accents, and it had large platforms with vast windows for observation. Their pilot set them down on a sort of landing pad, marked with the same lines that Alan had seen throughout this world. The recognizer alighted with a tremor and the fuselage lowered to the ground.

"Welcome to central control," Flynn announced. "I just call it HQ, for short. It's not much, but we can talk safely inside."

 _Safely?_ Alan thought, before he shut his mouth.

Accompanied by a detachment of programs, Flynn and Alan left the recognizers. Alan turned to see the three vehicles perched like misshapen vultures. For whatever reason, the sight made him shudder. He was grateful to leave the aircraft behind.

The inside of "HQ" was just as large as the outside. Flynn led him down a long corridor that was reminiscent of a cable. Orange lines illuminated every inch of the hall, and there was even the occasional program in their path, often carrying a tablet-like device. They shuffled aside, sometimes with salutes, but always unspeaking. The guards glided beside Flynn like shadows.

Another shudder came unbidden to Alan.

In the past, Flynn had portrayed the programs in his stories as these lively characters, each with their own quirks, talents, and interests. But so far, the only personality Alan had seen from the programs was the strict, stoic silence of a soldier. _Soulless._ Alan wondered if all programs were like that, or if there was any merit to Flynn's personifications.

After many metres, they arrived at a vaguely circular room. Flynn and Alan entered alone while the guards posted themselves by the door. Within only a few paces, Alan noticed a disturbance in the walls. Three elegant women seemed to emerge from the walls themselves. They were garbed in suits of striking white with lights that were brighter still. Dead-faced, they stalked towards Alan, heels clicking against the floor. Alan looked to Flynn for answers but his friend seemed lost in his own little world.

"Um, Flynn?" Alan said, voice rising with confusion and panic.

The white-clothed programs had no qualms about invading his personal space. They herded him to the centre of the room, right onto a sort of platform. Immediately, Alan felt his feet lock into place. He squawked in alarm, and if not for the restraints on his shoes, he might've fallen flat on his face.

Alan didn't like this. He didn't like this one bit. They were too close and too _touchy_ for his tastes.

Not one of them met his gaze as they arranged themselves in a ring. Their fingers lit up like tiny blow torches, and when they skimmed their hands over his body, his clothes came off like wrapping paper.

"Wait, wh-" Alan started to protest. He twisted as best as he could and raised his fists defensively. "Woah, WOAH-!"

At last, Flynn spoke. "Calm down," he said between chuckles. "We're just gonna outfit you with a disc and some circuits. You'll feel better after. Trust me."

"Outfit me with _what-_ _hey!_ "

Someone tugged on his shoulder and Alan's overcoat tumbled to the floor in tatters. A sort of built-in, central vacuum sucked the fabric into the floor itself, leaving no trace behind. Alan watched the whole process with subdued anguish.

"...I liked that coat," he said morosely.

The women continued their work, always deft, and always in unison. Eventually Alan learned to stand still for fear of being burned or provoking Flynn's amusement. With robotic movements they stroked his sides, shredding fabric as they went. One of them reached for his glasses, almost inquisitively, but Alan bristling was enough to make her back off. Among other things, he drew the line at his glasses. Soon enough they'd stripped him down to almost nothing. Alan shivered as the cold air hit his skin like a shock.

Just before Alan was rendered completely indecent, they stopped. The tallest approached him while the rest kept their distance. Once they were about an arm's length apart, she touched her index finger to his collarbone. A foreign substance sprang into existence. It was the colour of tar and the consistency of concrete. Black pixels crawled down his body like a swarm of beetles. Without thinking, Alan began to swat and scratch at the substance, but stopped when he felt Flynn's eyes on him. Flynn gave him an encouraging nod and Alan stilled.

If Flynn thought this was all fine and normal, then Alan would just have to trust his judgement.

There was more movement from the walls. Pockets appeared around the room, each containing pieces of thin, plated armour. One by one, the programs retrieved the pieces and placed them on Alan, where they instantly stuck. Alan could feel them sealing like glue against the black base beneath. The final look evoked an insect's exoskeleton. That is, until the shell began to _glow_.

The gaps in Alan's armour kindled like little candles. A unique design began to take shape, simple but striking. If these were the so-called "circuits" that Flynn had mentioned, then they were much more isolated than the circuits Alan was used to seeing in the real world. There were mirrored dashes on his knees, chest, and inner biceps, and a collection of rings and dots speckling his hips and abdomen. The lines were also brighter and whiter than any of the others Alan had seen thus far. Not enough to be distracting, but enough to be noticeable.

There was one thing left on the shelves. At first Alan could barely make it out, but when a program brought it closer, he realized that this must be the "disc" that he needed. It was shaped like a hollowed-out frisbee and outlined with that same distinct light that existed everywhere else. The program attached it to a point on his spine and the force jerked him forward.

Alan's life flashed before his eyes.

He saw vague vignettes from his childhood, stressful episodes from college, and happy days at Encom. Years passed by in the blink of an eye. He was playing frisbee in a field, then watching his father drive away, bantering with Roy, splitting a doughnut with Flynn, and standing in a courthouse with Lora. When his eyes opened, it was over.

Flynn was right about feeling better afterwards. The circuits banished all residual cold and left him relatively comfortable. His surroundings also seemed less menacing and mysterious, now. It felt like one of those workdays when he was totally in tune with his code—seated at a terminal, a bowl of popcorn at his desk, and his fingers flying over the keyboard. He was connected to the computer, to _the Grid_.

Whatever mechanism that'd held his feet disengaged. After some hesitation, Alan stepped off the podium. He stretched his legs and found that the material was flexible. It moved, bent, and _breathed_ with him. The closest program gave the line on his pectoral an experimental prod. Alan jolted at the touch. To his surprise, the circuits were as sensitive as skin, if not more so.

He looked at the offending program and was taken aback by the naked fear in her pupils.

So they _did_ have emotions, after all.

Alan inspected her closer. A brunette, maybe? It was hard to tell with the general desaturation from the Grid. There was definitely something different about her compared to the others, like she was trying to tell him something with her eyes alone.

" _Synchronization_ , complete," she told him.

Had Alan imagined the sadness in her voice?

Brushing aside his uneasiness, Alan faced Flynn. His friend was in the middle of studying him. His eyes lingered an extra moment on his disc before moving to his light lines. A slight frown marred his features.

"What is it?" Alan asked.

Flynn seemed to shake himself out of a trance. He spoke through a stiff smile. "It's nothing. You look good."

"I look like a walking lamp post," Alan dead-panned.

"That's the fashion here, man. Come on." Flynn jerked his head over his shoulder with an ever-present playfulness.

Alan didn't move. He awed at the self-illuminating lines on his arms and spoke tremulously. "Flynn, with this... you could change the world."

Genuine happiness gleamed in Flynn's eyes as he clapped his hands over Alan's shoulders. "I'm so glad you're on board, man. Come, there's more to show."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late and I'm not sure if there's any typos so hh go easy on me.  
> And thanks to all the commenters from last chapter <3


	4. Chapter 4

Flynn and Alan strolled side-by-side for many minutes, accompanied by a constant escort of guards. Flynn was speaking, recapping the current state of the system, but Alan hardly heard him. He'd started to zone out somewhere between _"Abraxas virus"_ and _"memory-culling games"_. When you were surrounded by living programs, marvelling at digital furnishings, and wearing neon armour, carrying on a conversation became something of a chore.

The more they walked, the more expressive the programs became. Their reactions to Flynn and Alan ranged from mild discomfort to outright shock. Underneath it all was a choking deference that followed Flynn wherever he went.

None of the programs sported Flynn's bright gold—a shade that appeared to be unique to him. All Alan ever saw was red, red, red.

Normally Alan might've been self-conscious about looking like a living Christmas tree. But seeing as how everyone else was sporting the same look, and that most programs didn't seem capable of judgement, he got by. Besides, he'd worn worse. The marketing campaign for _TRON_ came easily to mind.

 _Tron..._ he hadn't thought about the original, eponymous program in so long. He'd honed Tron's code over the course of months and years, running it through tests and condensing it into a nigh-impenetrable firewall. Even now the security software had a special place in his heart.

Hadn't Flynn asked to use Tron for something "top secret"? If this was that same project, then was it possible that Tron was here, somewhere? Patrolling the circuit-like streets? The thought made Alan more excited and uneasy than he cared to admit.

"-And this is the main observation room," Flynn said with a sweep of his arm.

Alan snapped back to attention. They'd arrived at a wide, oval-like room, filled to the brim with bustling programs. Most of them were arranged in rows that reminded Alan of the old cubicles back at Encom, seated at what he could only describe as _terminals_. Each seat had a type of keyboard attached to a small panel. The interface was fairly simple, as was the display, but the resemblance was undeniable.

 _Computers inside a_ _computer_ , observed Alan with some bemusement.

Sure. Why not?

Upon entry, all the eyes in the room landed on Flynn and his guest. Alan's head swivelled on his neck as he took in the horde of onlookers. Some of them stood from their stations, and he spied more guards skulking around corners. Unconsciously, he edged closer to Flynn.

Flynn flashed him a disarming smile. "Don't worry about them. They won't hurt you. Not unless I tell them to. Kidding, _kidding_ -" He laughed at Alan's sudden, sharp look.

"Ha ha..." Alan drawled. In spite of the disgust in his voice, a part of him had missed Flynn's little jokes. The teasing almost felt like old times.

Almost, but not quite.

Flynn strode to the furthest wall, which was composed almost entirely out of glass. After a brief, perplexed spell, Alan followed. He stopped short of the window and ogled at the tapestry of light lines crossing the city like lattice. Even after his ride in the recognizer, Alan's breath was stolen at the sight.

"Quite a view," he remarked.

Tentatively, Flynn lifted his eyes to Alan's. He spoke haltingly, like a child asking for a treat. "How does it compare to... to _home?_ "

Alan considered the question. There was no denying the beauty of this brave, new, digital world. And yet... Something was _off_ , something that Alan couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the lack of sunlight, or Flynn's changed demeanor, but everything about this place left Alan unnerved. Truthfully, he was more than ready to head home.

"Lora would love it," he said at length.

Flynn smiled with almost sinister wideness. "I'm quite proud of it." Smile fading, he turned and clenched his fists above the sill. "Though I'll admit that it's far from perfect."

"No system is," Alan said easily, an eyebrow raised.

Where was Flynn going with this?

Flynn held up a finger, eyes flaming with all the passion that Alan remembered from him. "Not _yet_." He paused, as if to give Alan a moment to absorb the proclamation, then forged onwards. "But _together_ , we can iron out the bugs."

"What kind of _'bugs'_ are we talking about here?"

Flynn's reply was cut off by the arrival of another program, and Alan jerked around in alarm.

A furtive figure had crept up behind them, small, silent, and spry. He was a short man, inconspicuous, but intimidating, somehow. He carried himself with an effortless confidence that Alan knew all too well from the halls of Encom. He also wore the same suit as some of the other soldier-type programs Alan had seen, which only increased the intimidation factor. His black hair was perfectly parted, with a matching patch of hair on his chin. Out of all the programs Alan had seen, this one seemed to be the most lively, the most human.

Flynn's smile slipped slightly as he sighed. "And speaking of..." He faced the individual. "Bad news, I assume?"

The man did not move or speak. His eyes were locked onto Alan and the only motion he made was to bob his adam's apple. Alan fiddled with the frames of his glasses, wondering if there was something wrong with his face. Coughing pointedly, Flynn gestured at the program.

"This is Dyson, Head of Security. I guess you could call him my second-in-command." His hand swept the other direction. "Dyson, this is Alan. I've told you about him." This last sentence was accompanied by a meaningful glance. Dyson shied beneath Flynn's eyes.

"It's an honour to meet a friend of the Creator," he said hastily.

Alan appraised him keenly, then asked, "So you're a security program?"

Dyson dipped his torso in a half-nod, half-bow. "At your service."

Fascinated, Alan gawked at the program with renewed interest. He was not oblivious to the way Dyson squirmed under his gaze. Here, in front of him, was the living fruits of his labour. Or at least, someone _else's_ labour. All the same, it was incredible to imagine someone in his field, not unlike himself, programming the very _person_ in front of him now. Perhaps it was even someone from Encom, someone he knew. It wouldn't be the first time Flynn had "borrowed" Encom property, modified it to suit his own purposes, which brought Alan's thoughts back to Tron...

"Nice. I used to specialize in security programming," said Alan.

"Oh, believe me, we know."

Alan wondered _that_ meant. It would've been innocuous enough, if not for Dyson's tone. A frown pressed down on Alan's brow, but Flynn was already brushing the comment aside.

"So, what news, man?"

Almost imperceptibly, Dyson's eyes flitted from Alan to Flynn. His body was coiled like a cat's and Alan saw him swallow. Noticing his hesitation, Flynn offered him a nod. The security program set his shoulders in a straight line and spoke.

"There were a few explosions in District 2."

"The assembly yard?" Flynn asked.

"Yes. We had a few... casualties."

Flynn inclined his head. "And the carriers?"

"Still on schedule," Dyson assured him.

"Then it's hardly a loss. All the same... Send more security so this doesn't happen again, and see if you can find any stragglers."

Alan blinked at Flynn's chilling nonchalance. _Explosions? Security? **Casualties?**_ Was this normal for the inner workings of a computer? If so, Alan wasn't keen on overstaying his welcome.

"Actually, sir, there's more," Dyson said. "We have reports of another explosion at an energy plant that occurred around the same micro-cycle. I believe it to be a coordinated effort."

A second sigh escaped Flynn and he cast the window a sidelong glance. "See what I mean, Alan? These are the bugs I was talking about. Rebellion, upheaval, rumours of uprising... it's all wrong."

"Rebellion? Upheaval? Uprising?" Alan couldn't keep the shrewdness out of his voice. _From programs?_

Flynn barked a bitterly whimsical laugh. "Yep. Programs turning on their creators. Can you imagine?"

Alan tilted his head, just a smidgeon. After everything else he'd witnessed today? ...Actually, yeah. He could imagine it.

Unprompted and unchallenged, Flynn went on. "It's a real shame, man. I had a whole plan laid out. Everything was going to be _perfect_."

Alan shifted in place, overcome with a strange inkling of being _cornered_. By this point he was anxious to leave. Every second that went by left him increasingly on-edge. Lora would be waiting for his usual, post-work call, and his cat was about due for a meal.

"This is all very interesting, Flynn, but shouldn't we be heading back?"

"Ah, that. No need to rush."

 _"No need to_ _rush_?" Alan repeated incredulously.

"Time is relative, man. You've been gone for a few..." Flynn drifted off, thinking to himself. "... _"minutes"_ at the most."

This new piece of information gave Alan pause. Time must move differently in the digital realm. _Of course_. As a concept, it made perfect sense. Even so, Alan was having trouble wrapping his mind around it.

"Well it might not have been very long for _me_ , but _you've_ been gone for over a year. Sam hasn't been the same since."

"Hm?"

Alan stared for a few seconds, mind sputtering to a stop, mouth working through a series of silent syllables. Nothing mattered to Kevin Flynn more than his son. _Nothing._

"Your son? Sam?"

The reminder was sharp and Flynn seemed to jerk in remembrance.

"Oh, baby Sam. How is the little man doing these days," he asked absently.

"He's hardly "little" anymore," Alan said, crossing his arms. "And more than anything, he misses his father."

"I'm sure he does, but I have my hands tied at the moment. This system will fall apart unless I stay here, unless _we_ act."

A range of goosebumps rose along Alan's arms. Flynn was starting to sound less like _Flynn_ by the second.

Desperate to make him understand, Alan said, "Who cares about all that? Flynn, Encom is in shambles. Roy lost his _job_. I take Sam to see a _therapist_ every week."

" _'Who cares'_?" Flynn rounded on him with sudden fire. "This is my life's work!"

All Alan could do was step back from the Stranger, an anchor settling in his stomach. He finally recognized the feeling for what it was.

 _Dread_.

"But isn't Sam more important? Aren't Lora and I more important?" Alan's voice wavered.

Flynn shook his head. "Nothing is more important."

This final sentence seemed to flick a switch in Alan's mind. He drew himself up, suddenly cold and distant.

"You're not the Kevin Flynn I remember."

Flynn regarded him, then, lost in reverie and with a face bereft of emotion. He appeared to be pondering something, and after a short moment, he came to a decision.

"Actually, Alan, I'm not Flynn at all." A slow smile split his face. "But I'm still very happy to see you."

Alan's mind was wiped blank.

He turned, as if to leave, and Alan laid a staying hand on his shoulder.

Fast as a snake, Flynn _struck_. Alan's eyes burned yellow. Before he knew it, he was on the floor, shielding the side of his face. His cheek stung from hard knuckles, and his ear stung with... something else. As the shock wore off, Alan realized that the sensation was _heat._ His ear was afire, and a hot liquid dripped down his jaw.

He squinted through his fingers and saw _Not-_ Flynn holding his disc—a glowing ring that spun amber and dripped scarlet. The man's face twisted into something shark-like, and by the light of his disc, he seemed almost _inhuman._ His chest was heaving and there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes that might've been mirth on a friendlier face.

Alan's eyes floundered to the floor and found his glasses, skewered in half, left lens shattered. His fingers travelled up and felt along his ear. They stumbled upon a groove in the flesh and came away bloody.

"I don't appreciate being manhandled," said Not-Flynn.

Indignation sparked in Alan like flint on steel.

Manhandle _him?_

He'd nicked his ear, broken his glasses, and impersonated his friend, then had the nerve—

In the same instant that Alan sprang to his feet, a body slammed into his back. Before he could blink, he found himself facedown on the ground, pinned like a nailed plank. Dyson wrenched up his head by the mop of his hair, fingers digging into his scalp like knives. For such a small man, he was surprisingly strong. Alan blearily eyed one of Not-Flynn's shiny, glowing boots, then spat with pinpoint accuracy.

That was the _second_ time now that he'd been unceremoniously knocked to the floor. Needless to say, Alan was not pleased. In fact, he was _pissed_.

Not-Flynn pulled back his leg, as if to kick Alan in the nose, but thought better of it.

"That was not very polite."

"Who the hell are you?" Alan snarled.

"Another one of Kevin Flynn's secrets," Not-Flynn droned long-windedly. The mask was missing, the illusion shattered. "Another one of his _mistakes_."

"Where is he? What have you done with him?"

"Same thing I'm going to do to you. And don't worry, I'm sure you'll be seeing each other very soon." Again, Alan tried to throw himself at the Imposter, but was prevented by Dyson digging his knee into his spine. Coolly, as if there'd been no interruption, Not-Flynn continued. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take care of some things."

That seemed to be the signal Dyson was waiting for, because immediately after, he dragged Alan up and handed him roughly to a pair of guards. Alan struggled and swore but the guards' grips were like iron bands. As he was being hauled away, he noticed the programs flocking hungrily around Not-Flynn.

Meanwhile, Not-Flynn seemed intent on his disc. He made a delicate flicking motion and the disc went dormant. Alan saw him admiring it from all angles, eyes lingering on its reddened edge. He made a show of lifting the blood-stained disc for all to see, flourished it, then touched it to his mouth. Alan recoiled in disgust. A low roar of approval rose up from the assembled programs.

Eventually Alan lost sight of Not-Flynn, but the crows of victory followed him all the way down the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh.


End file.
